When it Gets Dark
by equine02
Summary: They thought the polio came back... Then again, they thought a lot of things about Crutchie. (Just felt like some Crutchie whump. May be one shot, may be more. Not slash, Broadway version. I like my Andrew Keenan Bolger as Crutchie)
1. How we Fight the Darkness

**Hey people. So this is my first Newsie fic, so please forgive the bad accent writing. I hope you all like it, and I will consider an update if it's popular. It's completely unedited, so I'm sorry about any mistakes. Enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: I wish.**

It came back worse than the first time. The polio resurfaced in the thick of winter, when the snow corroded the insides of hungry newsboy's lungs as they yelled out headlines for mere pennies and dimes. Or so they thought. Crutchie writhed against the pain in his leg, and called out for Jack when he was awake enough to notice his brother's absence. Race held the younger boy's hand uselessly, feeling stupid and helpless. Romeo, who'd been down with a badly sprained arm had been sent out only a few minutes ago to get Jack. Their leader had been hesitant to leave the worsening Crutchie, but they'd convinced him to cover for him unless it became serious. They couldn't afford a doctor, so they had to ride this out, and probably they would lose the fight.

Jack burst in a few minutes later and went directly to his friend's side. Crutchie's hair was almost brown with sweat, and his hands grasped at the fabric covering his stiff right leg.

"'Ey, 'ey, Crutch, I'm 'ere," Jack felt Crutchies forehead with a shaking hand. He was burning up. He slid his coat off and kneeled next to his brother's bed

"Jack… 'strike…. We's 'won?" the boy asked.

The strike had ended months ago, but Crutchie hadn't been the same since he'd been back from the refuge. He'd stopped selling papers two weeks after and laid in bed most days, feeling guilty and trying to think of ways to be useful.

"Yeah, we won, kid. S'okay, lie back."

"...Refuge?" Crutchie's glassy eyes watered. Bloodshot and unseeing, he searched Jack's face.

"No." Whispered the leader, "no, no more Refuges', none o' that, crip."

"What's we gonna do?" Race's eyes darted between the pair. Behind them Romeo watched as he eased his injured arm out of the coat.

"Davey."

"Youse sure? Lookee, Davey's real high-flyin'-"

"He's gonna help, now keep Crutchie cool, I'se gonna be fast about it!" Jack didn't even put on a coat before he darted outside into the tangled snowflakes.

He ran the whole way to Davey's house, tripping across the icey cobblestones as though he'd never gone over them before.

He knocked until his knuckles felt like splitting, and kept knocking even after. Davey cracked the door open.

"Jack? How-"

"Figured you'd be here, you wasn't out 'dere this mornin'. Look, Crutchie's in a bad way. Messed up his leg, an' the polio's back. Maybe somethin' else, but we can't fix it. We need someone, Davey, help him!" He tried to come in, but the door shut to barely a slit.

"Jack, you gotta leave."

"Why?"

"Les has the Scarlett fever. I got it two years ago and I was fifteen, it almost killed me. You probably ain't got it yet, and that means it could kill you an' every one of the Newsies. You have to leave. I'm sorry."

"But I've had da-" the door shut, and Jack spun away, into the fresh wind of the oncoming blizzard. Night was setting in.

"Dammit!"

He walked on numb feet through a broken and nearly empty New York. _New York's fine for those who got big doors to shut it out._

"Young man? Are ye-" the Irish in the woman's voice drew him to a stop. "Why Jack Kelly, whatever has gotten to yer coat?" The nun leaned out of the window of a tall stone church, holding a bucket of water. She poured it out.

"Whatever are you doing? Work day is over, is it not?"

"It's over, Sister…."

"Sister Mary. What brings you out to the church? Gotten a taste for God now, have you?"

"No, ma'am. It's my fr- it's Crutchie."

"The poor Cripple?"

"Yes. He's bad, and there ain't no doctor that'll take him without the cash. I only got seventy cents to my name, won't be enough."

The sister put up a finger and disappeared into the dark church. For a long time Jack stood alone in the freezing quiet street. He was about to keep moving back to Crutchie when the Sister appeared on the steps, carrying a basket with a long black shawl thrown over her head. Thick snowflakes nearly disguised her face, and they said no words as they rushed back to their meager shelter.

As they ducked inside, Jack took in the shock of heat, as sparse as it was.

"Over there ma'am. Sister." He pointed to the bed. Race was sleeping slumped against the bed on the floor, his fingers intertwined with Crutchie's. The cripple was breathing heavily. They'd taken off his shirt, and now all the other Newsies just watched as the nun sat herself down next to the adolescent and felt his forehead.

"Good news and bad." She said after a moment. "Isn't Polio, not that I figure. Seems like Pneumonia or possibly Scarlet fever. I hear a round is about. Firstly, you did well to take his shirt off. But he needs to be propped up a bit. As I hear it, Pneumonia is the gathering of fluids in the lungs. Someone help me fix it so." After a bit of rearranging, she motioned for Jack to hand her her basket, which hadn't even realized he was holding. "The trouble with this is that he's weakened. Broken ribs I see- it'll make it hard for him to breathe, to cough. We have to be careful, but we can't bind the ribs. Only set them, if any might need it. Have you done so yet since they were broken?"

Jack bit his lip, "We only had Davey. 'Dey wouldn't heal right. We's made this promise he'll be okay. Does it look too bad?"

"Well, it seems they haven't healed quite at all. Ribs tend to do it my themselves, but he's half starved and very weak. We just need to make sure they're in place... any of those that have may have healed wrong might have to be rebroken if they're restricting his breathing." The nun sighed. "There's no easy way to do this. You ought to hold him still while I check to see if any need to be set at all. His coughing might put them out again, but it'll make him more comfortable for now."

Race and Jack rushed forward to hold the boy's shoulders and pin his left leg. The sooner it was over….

"Steady…" she pressed on his chest along the side and front, and moved her hands down almost to his midsection. He bucked weakly and tried to move away, but the boys held tight.

"Well, this on and this one-" she carefully pushed her hand against his side, using the other as counterpressure against it. They heard a faint snap, and Crutchie groaned, eyes opening to stare at Jack helplessly. "It's better." When she moved her hands, the area was red and angry against his usually pale skin.

"No we must have some hold water. Melt some snow, but only just, please. It must be cold."

The boys moved off the bed as Buttons and a few others went about the task. Jack watched Sister Mary take out some bread from her basket, the same they all got most mornings. It wasn't as stiff. The revelation dawned on him that the nuns made the bread and let it sit overnight. In the convent air it probably stiffened to a stone like texture. But now it was fluffy and perfectly browned. It looked heavenly, and Jack blushed when his stomach rumbled. Mercifully, Sister Mary said nothing, but had them sit Crutchie up.

"You must eat, child." Her thick Irish flickered with desperation and seriousness.

"J'ack?" Crutchie moaned, "m' leg." A tear moved down his face, his jaw, and dropped hotly on Jack's hand. The older boy cradled him against his chest.

"I know it 'urts, Crutch. Hang in there. You hav'ta eat. Take some of 'dis good stuff sister here brought. Lookee."

"Can't eat, Jackie. Can't breath." He started to sputter on his own words. A coughing fit made him double onto himself, and he shook miserably, clutching his fever-pained leg and coughing.

Once he was done, he leaned weakly against his brother's chest, and closed his eyes. His broken chest heaved, black and blue and sweaty. He was crying enough for Jack to remember that this was more than sickness to Crutchie. Last time he was this sick he'd lost the use of his leg. What did he figure on losing now? He was probably terrified.

"Only ways' youse gonna get better is 'ta eat. 'N drink too. Here, Buttons here got us some melted snow crap. Drink up, buddy. Help me here." He got an eye from the sister for his mildly improper language.

Jack took the cup of water and lifted it to Crutchie's cracked lips. The boy held it in his mouth before carefully swallowing. He went back for more, drinking thirstily until the Nun firmly took it from him.

"He's still thirsty!" protested Jack.

"Yes, but should he drink too much too fast after a bit of no drink a'tall, he'd suffer the worst pain in his middle. He should take it in bits. Now here, some bread. See how much you can keep down boy."

Crutchie managed two bites before coughing half of it up again. "Mmmm, S'rry, Jack."

"S'all right, buddy. Take it slow."

The rest of the night progressed like this. Eventually the rest of the Newsies fell asleep, except for Jack. Sister Mary talked softly, smoothing Crutchie's hair down, calming him when he panicked in his feverish state.

After one particularly bad night terror, while Crutchie was leaning his whole weight against Jack, staring ahead, chest heaving to get precious oxygen, the sister began to sing softly, in the same tune she'd used to greet the children every morning on their way to the wagons.

 _Sle-ep, softly_

 _Do not worry, don't be afraid,_

 _You are safe now_

 _You will soon awake_

 _Silent, child,_

 _Now the city sleeps in the cold_

 _someone listens_

 _God above above you shall hold_

 _Every wonder, every fear_

 _Sleep in silence,_

 _Rest child, here_

Crutchie sighed and turned his head restlessly into Jack's shoulder.

"Wha'do we do, sistah?" Jack whispered.

"We can pray, Jack."

Jack, who'd hardly ever uttered a word to God or whatever else was up there, bowed his head, touching his chin to Crutchie's head, and prayed.

 _Dear God… Crutchie ain't done nuthin' to deserve this. He got it bad, with the leg and all. Don' take 'im now. I can't live 'ere without 'im… I know it's selfish. See I never got folks, not that I can remember 'cept for my old man, who bought it long time ago, so's I needs 'im like a brother. Not that much to ask. I jus' need 'im better. I wan' 'im to run. See Santa Fe, maybe. An' 'deres another thing. I know I promised Kat, I know I did. But Ise feelin' the air choke me. I wanna go worse than evah before. Please God, it ain't much. Ise not familiah wi' you much, but I see you made a good person in Sistah Mary here, sos if you could do da same wi' me. Thanks._

…

Morning found Jack sleeping. Sister Mary had left in the night, with a bottle of honey and herbs from her basket and a quickly scrawled note to force feed Crutchie if they had to, but to get it in him, by gosh. So they did. Race helped get it in his mouth, and Jack massaged Crutchie's adam's apple until he swallowed. Gagging, Crutchie roused.

"J'ck?"

"Here Crutch. Youse gave us the scare of our lives!"

"Not feelin' sah great, 'doh."

"Undastandable!" Jack grinned at the guys gathered around, just as the distant bell rang.

Crutchie coughed as Jack eased out from under him. His back was stiff and pinched, but he smiled and stretched.

"Romeo, wi' dat bum arm, youse better stay with Crutchie."

"Covah for me?" Romeo grinned cunningly.

"Don't bet your life on it," Jack grabbed the jar of honey and herbs and poured some into an empty glass jar. He screwed the top back on and slipped it in his pocket. "Romeo, dis stuff every hour or so's. Got it?"

"Yeah. Who's the rest for?"

"Les got the Scarlet fever."

"What now? Not the little guy!"

"Yeah, its bad, says Davey. Got it when I was a kid, though, sos I'm okay, gonna go spread da' holly-day cheer."

…

Jack laid three quick knocks at David's door. His father, Jack assumed, answered.

"Newsies goin' door tah door now?" He almost shut it, but Jack stopped him.

"No sir. I want to see Les." He extended a hand, which was stared at suspiciously. "I'm Jack Kelly."

The man's face changed.

"Les it okay, kid. It's Davey now."

"What? But he said he'd got it before!"

"S'different, Doc said he can't explain it. One of those medical mysteries no one gets."

"Well, I've gots somethin' for 'im. I've got 'dah fever once too. I don' mind riskin' it again. Just got this remedy honey stuff."

"Fine kid. Risk your own neck."

Les was sleeping on his side, his fever having obviously broken a while ago. Across the room, Davey was weaky and restlessly moving around on his own cheap cot. His mother leaned over him.

"Jack, why, what are you doing here?"

Her accent was smooth and careful. He liked it's sound in spite of himself.

"I 'eard about Davey. Gots somethin' for 'im." Jack handed her the jar.

"What is it?"

"Somethin' a Sistah gave me for mah friend. Got pnemonia or Scarlet fever 'imslef. Can't know which just now."

"Thank you." She sighed, "could you sit with him while I fetch some fresh water? I know you have a job, but…"

"Sure thing, Ma'am. He's my buddy."

Jack crouched down next to the bed and ruffled Davey's hair. The young man's eyes slowly opened. Weakly, he smiled.

"Hey, Jack, you're gonna get sick."

"Nah, no way. I got the fever before."

"The doc said-"

"Hey don' stress it. Got it all figured out. Don' talk, jus' rest."

"Crutchie."

"Bettah."

Davey nodded. His eyes slowly closed. Jack though he was asleep, but his friend slowly whispered to him, "Les was really sick."

"He's Bettah. Youse sick now, Dave. Lookatcha. Got them red lines. Youse burnin' up."

"I've seen what it does. Killed my sister real slowly. Her heart, somethin'... organs…" he moaned softly when Jack touched his arm.

"Can't breathe, Jack."

"U'm sorry 'bout your sistah. I didn't know…."

"S'okay. She was almost a crip too. Hurt her arm real bad… summer before the fever…. Couldn't hardly move it…. Doc said we'd be best an' let her go with the scarlet fever…" he opened his eyes again. Tears glowed on his pale face. "Is that how Crutchie must feel?"

"Mebbe."

"Jack." Davey's broken, pain-saturated voice came again, "I don't think I can… I don't wanna die yet. 'Dey need me still."

"Hey, hey, don't talk like 'dat!" Jack clutched his hand. "Just sleep. S'okay. Youse gonna be out there wi' our big ole banner soon. Sleep for now."


	2. Just before the Dawn

**Hallloooooo. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and every other holiday I don't know about. Sorry for my lack of education on the subject. I do care though- my Christmas present to you guys is this itty bitty chapter. Please enjoy and know that (DISCLAIMER) I don't, can't, never will own these guys. Ikr? Makes everywhere I look feel like the Refuge.**

Jack spent his next couple days moving from Crutchie's side by night, then to work by day, and then a final evening visit to the improving Les and the worsening Davey, when he could fit it in. Katherine was on a trip with one of her uncles to see a cousin in the South, and wouldn't be back until possibly spring. Now he barely had time to think of how excited he'd been to begin life; but how did that inspiration fade so quickly? He could only wonder. Perhaps just the worry.

On one particularly slow day, two or three days after Davey had fallen ill, ( _Former Millionaire Jakob Lesley's Mansion Up for Sale,_ was the headline) Jack took his extra papers back early and got twenty cents back. No one could afford Lesley's rat house. The place had been empty since the man had died, and his will was unclear. But it was none of his business. Just get the cash, move on, he had to remind himself. Weasel-ahem, Wiesel, almost shortchanged him, but Jack risked it and held out his hand for the last five cents. He wanted to pay Sister Mary still, but right now he had to see Davey.

Racing along the streets as the freezing air flapped his stiff grey jacket, Jack felt the exhaust creeping down his throat and into his lungs. Oh, he longed for a place where the air didn't have a taste… only a sound as it soared through the tall Ponderosa pines, or through a deep valley, or along a lonely mountain top. He almost ran right past the Jacob's house as he thought of how blue the sky would be, or how the stars must look like white diamonds spilled on black velvet. Of course, how could he know what those things looked like? The closest thing he'd seen was Miss Medda and her Faux fur black cape and imitation china silk gown, powdery black in color, with the clear glass beads roping around her neck. But they were foggy and old, like this city.

He laid three careful knocks on the door and was answered by Mrs. Jacob's soft voice.

"Wait now, Jack, is that you?"

"Yah, Ma'am." He stepped back a step as she opened the door.

He gentle grey eyes fluttered sadly. "Perhaps today isn't the best day, Jack."

"Is Davey alright?" Jack's eyebrows drew together. His mind took off in circles of worry before she even answered.

"The doctor is in now. It's been three days. His fever hasn't broken, and I'm afraid he's…" she broke off, pressing a thin wrist to her pale mouth, and sagging a little. Jack rushed forward to help her sit down in the kitchen, which was the first room inside the little apartment. He couldn't help feel how light she was, or the way her clothes hung off of her. Her eyes were dark and uncommonly dead looking.

"I'm sorry, Jack," she cried softly.

"Nah, nah, Mrs. Jacob. Hey, look, how abouts I gets something goin', like some coffee? Or get you something to eat?"

"There isn't much in here left. Since the boys have been down…. Les has been begging to go back to work. He says, 'Jack'll know what to do,'" she laughed bitterly, "I just can't let him."

"Oh, Mrs. Jacob. I'se sorry youse let it go so far. Why didn't yah tell me? Ise got extra from papes today. Not goin' anywheres 'cept under dah pilla case, see. Hows about you focus on gettin' Dave on his feet, and I'll takes care of dah food, at least for today?"

She looked at him like she was about to refuse, but Jack held his hand out, "Listen, I made a promise to a friend. Don' make me break it."

She finally nodded, a thin smile lighting her eyes only a little, "Jack, bless you, the Lord surely has a place for you in His heart!"

She didn't see his tight grimace as he spun out the door or his quiet remark, "let's just hope 'dem overpriced bakers has one of dem special spots in their hearts for me."

….

Jack returned with a half loaf of bread, an apple, and the biggest wedge of cheese he could afford. It was about as long as his middle finger and as thick at it's thickest as his wrist. What good it would do he had no idea, but he prayed it would do something, for all the energy it took to get it.

After he dropped off the food in the empty kitchen when he entered through a slightly cracked door, he jogged up the stairs into the sick room. Les was sitting just outside on a bench, nodding off. A blanket was wrapped around his thin shoulders, and Jack carefully readjusted it as it began to slide off.

Inside the room, the doctor held Davey's limp wrist taking his pulse. Davey's mother and father were closeby. A few words were exchanged- none that Jack could really understand- and then he watched Davey's back arch in a series of painful and cracking coughs. Jack buried his face on the wood trim of the door, and waited out the worst of it from a helpless ten feet away.

…

Jack stayed long after it got dark. He sent a note back to the Lodging house with Romeo, who passed by on his way back from his selling spot, telling them that he'd be staying overnight to help with Davey.

As the night progressed, Davey woke more and more, begging for water, and then begging for the "noise" to stop. Maybe a dream, maybe a phantom sound. Jack had no idea. He was so absorbed in his work of switching out cold compresses that he didn't notice Crutchie until he was right behind him.

"Kid what are yah doin'? You idiot, you wanna die or somthin'?"

"Jeck, you should know," Crutchie tried to joke, but couldn't tear his eyes off Davey, "dat I'se had every sickness 'dere is tah have. 'Cept consumption, mebbe." He sat down carefully, still weak.

"Why'd yah come?" Jack went beck to his work, seeing he was losing the argument already.

"Dave's my friend too."

"Sos? He's everybody's friend. Don' mean all of New York's in here."

"Well, youse my best friend too. My bruddah. And… I fugures… well, I knows youse close wi' Davey. If anythin'... well, you know. I should be 'dere."

"Thanks Crutch." Jack replied quietly. It was funny how Crutchie always knew when Jack needed him- even when Jack didn't.

 **Thanks for reading, sorry it's short. I'll try to update Partners in Crime soon, but I don't know when yet.**


	3. All we do is Dream

**Hey, sorry for the long delay…. Chapter three at last!**

About an hour after Crutchie showed up he fell asleep in his chair. Twenty minutes later Romeo, Specs and Henry appeared on the street below. Jack could hear their voices, their banter. They sounded worried.

He crawled over to the window, careful not to wake up David as he did so. Prying the thin glass open was easy. He stuck his head out and held the slipping window up on his shoulders. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he called down to them.

"Lookin' for somethin'?"

"Yeah…." Specs' eyes darted over to Romeo. "Yeah. Uh, you ain't seen Crutchie, 'ave you?"

"What'd'you mean, course I have! He's in 'ere. What? You lose 'im?"

"Thank dah makah!" Romeo hugged his threadbear jacket close to himself. "Crip snuck off. Racer was- emphasis on **was** \- s'posed to be watching dah kid, but he snuck off. Is he okay?"

"Yeah, what's he doin' up dere?" Specs squinted. Jack watched as Henry's hand deftly moved inside the coat pocket of a stranger. The boy clutched something dark blue in his fist, which sank in his pocket without any changes to his worried expression at all. Must have been a slow day for Henry to go back to picking pockets… which may or may not have been a

"Ummm, yeah, h-he's ok." Jack shook his head, "Listent, fellas, mebbe, you should take him home now. It's getting late."

A minute later, Romeo helped Crutchie stand, and when the boy only blinked blearily through eyes that looked like fractured sky, Jack helped him. He ruffled David's hair one last time, and then scooped up Crutchie in his arms, handing the crutch to Romeo.

"Hey, goodnight Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs," he whispered as he went through the kitchen. Mrs. Jacobs, with two bowls of soup in her hands on her way up to the sick room, paused.

"You aren't staying for dinner, Jack?"

"No, 'm sorry Ma'am. You've been real kind, but this runaway needs to get back to his bed."

"You're welcome to bring him to the, um… to my daughter's old room for the night."

"Nah, that's alright." Jack had too much pride for that. He would help a friend by tending his fever, he could accept charity from a nun, and he could humor his sick brother into letting him stay by his side, but he could never take advantage of hospitality from people like the Jacobs. They soup pot was small, and barely full. "Good night, Ma'am, sir."

And with that, the three boys joined the rest on the street, and melted into a frozen night.

…

Jack Kelly stood on top of the world. In his left hand was a glass of the coolest, sweetest tea he'd ever had, and in his right was a paintbrush with a fine, shiny handle and the softest bristles, dipped in pale lavender, like a sunset. Like a Santa Fe sunset. He stood on a peak of soft grass overlooking a canvas with a picture of a town that seemed to be swallowed by the great bluish-yellow sky of early morning. His brush touched the skirt of a woman in the picture, and she sidestepped it, grinning up at him from her place on the scene below. She ran to the edge of the canvas and folded her arms, only small wisps of purple paint with little peach hands, laughing as her warm eyes followed his brush. Katherine. His Katherine.

He redipped the brush after rinsing it. A soothing nut-brown made the thin line of a crutch close to a darker shade of the same color to make a leg, slightly turned in. His best friend- his brother- swung the crutch up in greeting, and hobbled over to where Katherine stood, watching their world come to life. He shrugged, his little painted face smiling, and tossed the crutch aside. It stirred up a tan shroud of dust. Standing straight, Crutchie put his hands on his hips and clicked his heels. Jack smiled as he painted the lively shadow. It didn't occur to him that his paintings had never danced before.

Les, Davey, Specs, Race, Albert, Elmer… all the guys, and even Spot Conlon appeared, one by one. And then the slender ebony hooves and cream colored mane of a muscular palomino took shape. He painted his own vest and blue shirt, and instead of a Newsboy cap, a sturdy stetson, dark brown. But he couldn't paint his face before the horse stomped, and the whole scene crumbled into a blurry blue-gray as Jack slowly blinked his eyes. He rolled over to feel Crutchie's warm arm and stiff fingers flexing slowly in sleep. The kid groaned, "Jeck…"

"You okay Crutch?"

"Yeah. You was dreamin', I think." Silence followed. "What was it about?"

Jack's mind skipped over his short life in the moments after the question.

His first memory of his bare feet stepping on sharded glass, and crying alone in an alleyway. His seventh birthday- the day he realized he didn't remember his real one, but he had to be seven. His first drawing, on the roof of a bakery, just smelling the scent of fresh bread while his eight year-old stomach turned.

And finding Crutchie later that day, curled up next to a wrought-iron fence, sleeping in the cold, with his arms wrapped around both legs. Crutchie knew more about Jack than Jack did. Jack Kelly's brother, Crutch Morris- it sounded easy. But the Manhattan boy was unaccustomed, even now, after years of sharing dreams and thoughts, to people caring. He could barely open his mouth. He'd made a promise to Crutchie. And Jack Kelly never broke a promise; but even so, Katherine wasn't any closer to him than before, and Santa Fe was further away than it had ever been. Crutchie's leg was worse; the strike hadn't saved the Jacob's from disaster. If anything, It had brought them to their knees. The strike couldn't stop the World from sucking the light out of a seventeen-year-old's eye. It sure hadn't saved him from failing his boys.

He rolled over, away from Crutchie, so the younger boy didn't see the shame burning in his eyes, or the tears trailing down his cheeks.

Barely audible, although Crutchie heard it, he murmured, "Santa Fe."

 **Sorry it's short guys, I had a crazy long day. Going to try to write chapter 3 for Partners in Crime, and post it this evening or this afternoon. Keep your eyes peeled for it:)**

 **Cheers, and thanks for reading!**


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